Desolation and Compulsion
by Chimuwaku
Summary: Mito was beautiful; Tobirama was stubborn. Potential swarms around them like bee's swarm flowers, yet acting on it isn't as easy as sucking nectar from the flower. Random drabbles portray different aspects of their relationship.
1. Blind

She was beautiful. Lengthy, fiery red hair worn in an elegant bun with wisps of gorgeous locks framed her soft features. Every smile was breath taking; every grimace left men running. Every laugh left them in awe. She was fierce and brave, but without the recognition of a true shinobi that she deserved. Instead, she was brought forth as a mere prize. When forced to go to Konoha, she was no longer Mito Uzumaki but better known as the future wife of Hashirama Senju. And instead of looked up to, she was pitied. She was going to marry a man who held no interest in her.

Sure, he laughed and joked, but it was mere friendship. What was truly painful was the look in his eyes whenever he looked longingly at the same man she adored. He was too oblivious to notice that she looked much the same way whenever Madara Uchiha passed by.

He was a man of few words, and even fewer were kind, but she understood the broken soul he hid beneath his shielded layers. The true person lying in his heart was astoundingly beautiful, and if _only _he could see himself the way she did. He was not crude or mean, simply expressive in ways she often was. He acted angry when hurt and furious when tormented. Her passion could quickly turn from gentle to red-hot in mere seconds. She would often send him anonymous signs of comfort.

It was her secret, and the love she felt would be brought to her grave because Madara never noticed her. He had eyes only for her husband. And much like their blindness, she was also at fault because she never noticed the scorching gaze from a set of dark eyes that burned through her beauty wherever she went. She never knew that there was a man who's heart yearned for her, silently begging to be noticed but much too stubborn to ever admit it. He was so much like her, and yet she never realized that his small acts of kindness and every gentle look headed her way was anything more than respect for his sister-in-law.


	2. Liar

"I really enjoyed last night."

It was five words. Only five. Yet those five words brought a million possibilities into perspective — her response could mean anything, or nothing, or maybe it would mean _everything. _He didn't want it to mean these things, wanted to stay close to what he knew best: order. He didn't want to get these feelings in the pit of his stomach, churning with unease and doubt. It wasn't professional, wasn't common sense, wasn't what he should be feeling. He was going insane, falling into a pit he never should have allowed himself to enter. But it was addicting; _she_ was addicting.

Her hair, flaming with dignity and respect, was usually neat and orderly like himself. Today it was spiraling in gorgeous, messy locks down the span of her curvaceous back, stuck to the nape of her neck and slick with sweat. Her legs wobbled slightly, strained with activity, but she stood tall as always. The muscles in her legs were shining with perspiration, cascading down in droplets. He couldn't see the front of her, but he knew the very same thing trickled down the sides of her face, running down her high cheekbones and down her neck, falling into the crevice of her slightly exposed chest. Her eyes would be shining, of that he was certain, because they had done this many times before and they always, _always _held a beautiful light within them when they finished. She may stick her nose up and turn away in bashful aggression at the snide comments they sometimes threw back and force, but a smile would always betray her when they finished training.

Was she smiling now?

He didn't know, couldn't tell because she was facing away, and that ate at him. But surely she was. He was not a blind fool, and he knew her. Of course she would be smiling; she loved compliments. He learned that quickly, discovered that the first day they trained with one another. But she would never admit it, always pretended to be so disciplined and restrained. But he could tell, because he watched her for it. Watched and waited for those times when she would slip into a comfortable ease with him, when she would smile for no reason, when she would argue or laugh, when she would make his own self control break. When she would touch him, reach out to him, when she would lean closer into him, when he could _swear_ she was about to do more, make _them _more.

But she was a tease — not on purpose, but a tease all the same. He wanted their lips to connect, want to feel her, all of her. Wanted to taste her, hold her, caress every inch of her skin.

But he could never. He was too stubborn, too rational, and he knew the consequences of acting on these feelings. He told himself it would pass, that surely this was just a minor obsession, a faulty occurrence, proof that he was just deprived.

He told himself it had nothing to do with the way her eyes shined, with that smile that adorned her features, with the gentle calm she possessed that waves could never wash away, with the elegance she held, with the power she wielded. It had nothing, absolutely _nothing _to do with her laughter, with her charm, with her caring nature, with her soothing personality. No, it had nothing to do with the way his heart pounded violently in his chest whenever she was near.

Because he didn't love her, no, that would be absurd.

Tobirama was a horrible liar; Mito, however, was a good one.

"Me too, Hashirama."


End file.
